


Anderson's Life

by Deleaf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Introspection, Post-Season/Series 04, The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24610297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deleaf/pseuds/Deleaf
Summary: “Hey Anderson!  Didn’t expect you to visit today.”  Lestrade’s mouth had been a tight smile as the detective searched Phillip’s face.  Phillip could hardly blame him; for months after his firing he spent his free time in and around the yard just to pretend  his life hadn’t flipped upside-down.  He had become more stable in recent years, but Lestrade never stopped worrying.
Relationships: Philip Anderson & Greg Lestrade, Philip Anderson & Sherlock Holmes, Philip Anderson/Sally Donovan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Anderson's Life

Sally Donovan had rejected him. Again.

He could see from a detached perspective that it was due in the long run; he and Sally had been in an off-again/on-again relationship for years. The longest break they took was after Sherlock Holmes’ “death” when Phillip went off the rails a bit while Sally had refused to admit any wrongdoing. When the detective came back and Phillip became more stable, he had made it his mission to get Sally back. He didn’t particularly like the woman personally, but _damn_ was the sex good.

So, he had covertly left a box of chocolates and a rose on her desk (because that’s what women like) and spent a copious amount of time next to the water cooler in hopes of seeing her reaction when she came in. He had been there when she strode through the door in her usual glory. She had always walked around like a queen and that day was no different. Her low-cut top had showed off the swell of her breasts as she stared evenly at the rest of Scotland Yard.

Phillip disagreed with her on a lot of things, but only a fool would deny her magnetism.

His breath had caught as she took in the items. His heart shattered as she rolled her eyes and disposed of them in her trash can.

Phillip had swallowed and crumpled the paper cup in his hands, unfortunately spilling water all over his hand and sleeve.

His tension had caught the eye of his old boss, DI Lestrade.

The man made his way over to Phillip and clapped his shoulder. “Hey Anderson! Didn’t expect you to visit today.” Lestrade’s mouth had been a tight smile as the detective searched Phillip’s face. Phillip could hardly blame him; for months after his firing he spent his free time in and around the yard just to pretend his life hadn’t flipped upside-down. He had become more stable in recent years, but Lestrade never stopped worrying.

The DI had become a fixture in Phillip’s’s life after Sherlock’s death. He had led him through his eventual firing (even when Lestrade himself had administered it) and pushed him to seek out professional help. Phillip had always wondered if Lestrade had felt a certain kinship over his shared blame in Sherlock’s death, but in that moment, torn apart by Sally’s rejection, he finally realized the man also just had something in him that Phillip did not.

Phillip took a shuddering breath. “Just dropping by.”

Lestrade had nodded tightly. “You’re doing well then?” he said in a low tone in case of eavesdroppers.

Phillip had given a half-hearted smile in answer. “I best be going.”

“Mmm,” Lestrade had hummed.

  
  
  


Now Phillip was staring up at his apartment ceiling. Cracks sprouted from all four corners of his bedroom with one particularly long one above his bed. He often supposed a more sane person wouldn’t sleep beneath the largest crack, but he found examining it above him to be the best part of his day, in spite of the constant fear of some pipe bursting overhead.

He sighed and ran his hands over his face. Donovan’s rejection was not a surprise, nor was it in itself heartbreaking. Yet he couldn’t help the edge of depression pushing at him once more. He guessed it was the indignity of it; he always wanted to be the sauve hero who got the girl--instead he was a depressed middle-aged man with only half a heart.

Sally had often made fun of Sherlock’s sociopathy with him as a sort of pastime. Phillip joined in--in part because it was always fun to be part of the in-group and in part because he figured that’s what a good boyfriend would do. However, after Sherlock died, he couldn’t help but wonder if they were that much better than the detective. Two people who forced a man into suicide, stuck in a relationship that was good for neither of them. They were nothing more to each other than an affair, yet too weak to give up the facsimile of romance.

Deep down, he knew Sally had done him a favour by turning him down. Deeper down, he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved it.

He first came to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes was a better person than he was about a year into the man’s death when he was sharing a drink with Lestrade.

  
  
  


“I mean, we solved it, of course. But four people _died_ , Anderson,” Lestrade was at the point in the night where the alcohol had loosened his tongue dangerously.

Phillip nodded and sipped his beer. He had loved hearing stories about the Yard’s cases--what little Lestrade was at liberty to share, anyway (although alcohol did produce some wiggle-room).

“Sometimes I just wish--” Lestrade cut himself off with a shake of his head.

Phillip wasn’t ready to let this go though. “Wish what?” he asked, putting his drink down to face his old boss

Lestrade glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He sighed softly and traced his finger over the ring his drink had left on the bar. “I just wish I was as smart as Sherlock Holmes.” Lestrade stared emptily at Phillip. Phillip knew the man would never admit to this when sober, and he couldn’t help but be glad he had. Because Phillip needed to admit to himself that he hadn’t just killed a man.

He had killed a good man.

The beer sat warm inside him. It was a pleasant summer evening.

Anderson had felt ice cold.

One would assume that after that revelation, he would change his ways, but things were not so. Because some things are easier to face when shitfaced.

Instead Phillip spent the next day drowning himself in The Empty Hearse--more so than usual, at least. There he could pretend Sherlock Holmes was merely a great detective who still roamed the world, instead of a very good and very dead man.

  
  
  


There were days he imagined the crack in his ceiling would come truly and properly undone. Days he imagined water spilling through and soaking him where he lay on the bed. He would wonder if he could force himself just to stay there--maybe drown, maybe just get a little wet. At peace with the universe, he would suppose.

Today was not one of those days. Today he was truly and utterly _done_ . He didn’t want to be at peace with the universe. He wanted to be a force of entropy. He wanted to leap off his bed and _do something_.

He hated Donovan. He hated her as any man would hate the symbol of his infidelity. He hated her as any person would hate the symbol of his misdeeds.

With a sudden bolt of energy he leapt off the bed and moved it to the centre of the room--as far from any of the cracks as he could manage. It made it hard to reach his dresser and made the room look terribly strange.

It would do.

Phillip sat on his bed with a new respect. His eyes drifted towards where his laptop was on his desk--which was now much closer than before.

His therapist had been trying to get him to write an apology letter to Sherlock for the last month. And he had avoided it like the plague. What on earth would he say? There wasn’t anything the detective would want to hear.

He closed his eyes.

 _Entropy_ , he reminded himself.

He hated Donovan.

Phillip took a deep breath and started to write.


End file.
